


Working with Love

by j520j



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Older Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 09:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13831176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j520j/pseuds/j520j
Summary: Some people get the job of their dreams. And then, they lost It...





	Working with Love

Inside the envelop there was a considerable amount of money. Upon the desk, where Miss Lemon work so diligently for more than two decades, there was a letter to the notary with Mr Poirot's signature one it.

"Mr Poirot…!" the woman's voice broke for a instant. "Are you… firing me?!"

The old detective was in his chair, looking meditatively at his cane. A bag of hot water settled on his left leg, which was getting more and more weakened over the years. He seemed to take a moment to understand the question, then gave to the woman a weak smile.

"Miss Lemon, I should be a thousand times senile - more than I'm already am - to fire you."

"You're not senile." the woman's voice sounded relief, but still a little nervous. She shake the envelop with the money. "But I want to know: what's the meaning of this?"

"Ah, I forgot!" he take a document from his desk. "Here. Take a look on this."

The man gave to Felicity a letter of recommendation.

"I'm not firing you, Miss Lemon. I'm just taking care of all the procedures to guarantee a good new job for you."

"Oh, my…! But this is the same thing!"

"No, it's not. I just think you should work with another person. I... I don't think you should keep working for me."

"But why?!" she sounded lost. "Why you don't want me working for you, Mr Poirot? All these years I didn't do a satisfactory work?"

"More than satisfactory. I can assure you."

"So… why?"

The Belgian take some seconds to answer.

"Well, the thing is… I'm not getting any younger, and so are you. And in these last years most of your work wasn't sorting out my mail or typing my letters. In recent times, your job was to make my bed, to help me get up from the chairs and take care of me during my colds."

"You're right. In these couple of years you didn't have too much cases to solve." a tender smile formed on the woman's lips. "So most of my work was been taking care of you."

" _Oui_." Poirot's smile was reciprocal. "And I don't think you're on the age to do the work of a caregiver."

"What?!" now the woman looked offended. "So… are you dismissing me because you think I'm too old?!"

" _Non_ , _non, non_!" Poirot almost laugh. " _Bon sang_ , nobody is old compared with me! But the thing is… well… " he trailed off a little. "I think is for the best. You're a great secretary. A very efficient one…"

He stopped. A cloud of sadness obscured his expression. He held the woman's hand.

"Miss Lemon, you deserves much more that spend your golden years taking care of an old senile like me."

For a moment, Felicity became out of words. She was not a very imaginative woman, but she could see the obvious: _Mr Poirot thinks that taking care of him is a job that's beneath me?_

"I know how ridiculous a woman as stupendous as you wasting your time taking care of an old man." he said, still holding her hand. "You should be working in a better place with men who can stand on both legs and who pass on to you only important jobs. I'm afraid my career as a detective is already at the end. There is not much more time for me, but you still have some good years ahead before you retire. You can get a better job with a better salary. I, with my contacts, can guarantee this…"

"No!"

" _Eh…_?"

"Mr. Poirot, I work for you for a very long time. I meet all sorts of people, very wealthy people. And believe me: if I wanted a better job with a better salary, I might already have gotten it years ago. But I wanted to continue working with you because I _like_ you."

For a moment she blushed. The last sentence seemed too… personal.

"I do not even need the job." she continued. "I have a widowed sister who is tired of trying to convince me to leave London and move in with her, so that we may enjoy the fortune that her husband left for her. If I'm here today it's because I like working for you."

"But… the work you have been done in these last years…"

"Yes, I know. My job has been closer to a nurse than a secretary." she bent to remove the hot water bag from the detective's leg where she previously placed. "But I don't care. I am working for you, that's enough."

Felicity looked at her own hands. One thing Mr. Poirot was right: she was not getting any younger too.

"But…" she sighed. "… if you think I'm not fit for this work… it may be true that my arms are no longer so strong to help you get up, or to take care of all the heavy work a caregiver needs to do. If you really want to hire someone else ..."

"I don't want." said the man. "But I'm afraid I need to. After all, the last thing I want in this world is to see you push yourself too hard and get hurt because of me."

"And the last thing I want is being away from you."

They were both silent for a moment.

In the last two decades they haven't lost the sight of each other. Felicity spent more time in that apartment than in her own house (not that she was complaining). And Poirot seemed to be happy with company. The life of a bachelor could be quite monotonous when he wasn't investigating murders.

"And what if…" Poirot started, a little uncertain. " _Bien_ , I need a caretaker. There is no doubt about it. But you could kept working for me until he got the hang of things? Learn how things work here in my apartment. The order to arrange all objects and everything else?"

"Oh!" her face lit up. "This… this really would be necessary! After all, nobody but me knows all the idiosyncrasies of how you like to have your things organized. It would take months before a new person learned everything. Maybe years!"

" _Oui_! And you could come here twice a week…"

"Twice? Oh, in the first several weeks I would probably have to come here every day! If this is ok for you, Mr. Poirot."

With a great grin, the Belgian took the hands of the woman on his.

"I would be delighted to have you at my house every day, Miss Lemon. And, this time... not like my secretary."

"Me too, Mr. Poirot." the woman said, holding his hands tightly. "Me too."


End file.
